You're My Favorite
by TheBritishMafia
Summary: Odin never had any trouble picking his favorite son. Loki didn't have any trouble picking his favorite Sun. And Sun didn't have any trouble picking her favorite Loki. Sometimes, favoritism is a good thing. Especially for an outcast.


The first time I woke up in the room, I was eighteen. That was six years ago.

.O.

I sit in the shadows of the small room, just shy of the rectangle of light falling on the patch of floor in front of me. Sharp, angular and precise, it sits before me, unwavering and constant. Slowly, I reach a hand out and let my fingertips glide through it. The warmth spreads evenly over them. Hungrily, I push my hand forward, up to the middle of my forearm. Should I extend my arm further, the cool shadows will prick at my fingers again.

I turn my hand over, clear, shapeless light spilling over my palm. It illuminates the lines that wind throughout; the creases and crisscrossed paths etched upon it.

I stay like this for hours. The attendant knocks and slides a tray of food through the opening in the door. I still don't move. When I finally do, the light has slipped away, falling behind the crest of hills outside my window. They are replaced by a canvas of stars, a swatch of inky blue speckled with tiny orbs of little lights. I watch them only for a moment, then sit by the light of the moon and draw until the light returns.

I do not sleep. I can, but I only like to when I know I can dream. Because when I dream, I fly.

.O.

Today is important. I know this because of the tiny note that comes with breakfast, the one that reads: "Happy Birthday, Sunna." I bathe in my bathroom's shower and dress in my best outfit; a long, white, cotton skirt and tank top. I tidy my room, add my drawings from last night to my walls and rest my toes in the patch of light. At dinner, I get a vanilla cupcake with fluffy white frosting and twenty-four tiny, silver, candy balls. Last year there were twenty-three. The year before that, twenty-two.

As the sun's bottom part touches the hills, I draw a design on the stiff white card I received at breakfast. When I finish, I place it in the drawer of my nightstand and run a brush through my hair. When the stars appear, I bring a chair over to the window and stand on it, placing my cupcake on the ledge and folding my arms in front of it.

I count the minutes up to seven and a half, and then the show begins- the stars begin to fall, plunging toward the hills before disappearing. It is beautiful. I smile, close my eyes and whisper to myself: "Make a wish,"

I do. But, although my wish is the same each year, it never comes true. It never hurts to hope, though. I pick up my cupcake and lick the frosting off, watching all the falling stars disappear until there are no more. Then I lie down on my bed and sleep. I dream; it's a nice dream, because when I dream, I fly.

.O.

When I wake up, there is a large hole where my window once was. I walk to the edge of the shadows, where the light throws a wide beam onto the far wall. Slowly, I reach out a hand and slip it into the warm daylight. My arm follows, then my shoulder, and then the rest of my body. I watch the rays play on my skin and walk toward the opening, away from my room and into freedom. My head smacks into something hard right as I start to cross the threshold of the hole. I fall to the ground and suddenly, the light is sucked from my vision. When it clears, I am sprawled next to the wall, just below my window. A pink glow is visible through the glass. I extend my hand and press it against the cool wall. There is no hole.

There never was. This is the first time I ever think of my room as a prison.

There is a knock, and the attendant slides a tray through the opening in the door and shuts it. As usual. I crawl over to it and notice the tiny object held fast under the glass of water. It is a note. On it, in the curvy writing style, are three words: "Happy Birthday, Sunna."

.O.

If I press my ear to my door and listen hard enough, I can hear music. Soft, sweet, music.

I am beginning to wonder things. Like who my attendant is. Who makes the cupcakes I eat on my birthday. Why my paper and pencils never seem to run out. They all go unanswered.

After all, I have no one to ask these questions. Until now. For the first time, I pick up one of my cards and flip it over, where it is blank. Very carefully, in pencil, I write out my first question:

**_Will you play the pretty music louder? _**

I place the card question up on my tray and slide it out the opening. When the attendant gives me my tray for dinner, I look for a response, but find none. But suddenly, the soft music I hear stops. It restarts, but it is not distant anymore. It is right outside my door, soft and sweet.

The music plays over and over all night. I sit with my back against the door with my eyes closed and just listen, as the stars outside my window ignite and wink out.

.O.

Each day, the music is different. It is still soothing, though. I like each one more than the last. I write another note, asking for another cupcake. Each day, now, I receive one with my dinner. One time I got chocolate frosting. I like vanilla better. I wrote this down on another card. I used to have six cards. Now I have three.

The fourth one I use to ask for the attendant to play yesterday's song again today. The fifth one, I ask my attendant's name.

When the attendant receives it, there is silence, then the sound of lunch being pushed through the opening. The card, a new one, had one word on it. The writing is curvy, like on the cards I get for my birthday.

**_Phil_**


End file.
